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despite books kindled in electronic flames. The locket of bookish love still opens and shuts. But its words have migrated to a luminous elsewhere. Neither completely oral nor written — a somewhere in between. Then will oak, willow, birch, and olive poets return to their digital tribes — trees wander back to the forest?
Copyright © 2011 by Elaine Equi. Reprinted from Click and Clone with the permission of Coffee House Press.
What is the difference between objects and things?
Things, I think, have less personality.
These days, all objects are antiques—hearken back to an era of hands handling them.
Playing cards, wooden matches, buttons, plush stuffed bears—we recognize them from the still lifes where they once quivered.
They were—are—tools, curios, refugees from the modernist era.
Of course, we still have these things. But now they are like us, just things.
They no longer celebrate their secret identity—the inner life once bequeathed upon even objects.
Although it no longer has a body
to cover out of a sense of decorum,
the ghost must still consider fashion—
must clothe its invisibility in something
if it is to “appear” in public.
Some traditional specters favor
the simple shroud—
a toga of ectoplasm
worn Isadora-Duncan-style
swirling around them.
While others opt for lightweight versions
of once familiar tee shirts and jeans.
Perhaps being thought-forms,
they can change their outfits instantly—
The sky is melting. Me too.
Who hasn’t seen it this way?
Pink between the castlework
of buildings.
Pensive syrup
drizzled over clouds.
It is almost catastrophic how heavenly.
A million poets, at least,
have stood in this very spot,
groceries in hand, wondering:
"Can I witness the Rapture
and still make it home in time for dinner?"